


make it linger

by hart



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Breathplay, Choking, Dom/sub Undertones, Don't Try This At Home, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Under-negotiated Kink, well this is. the horniest thing i've ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:21:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24044290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hart/pseuds/hart
Summary: “Do not fuckin’ jizz in my mouth, Brad, I don’t want a fuckin’ gum infection.”“Should have thought of that before you knocked out a tooth,” Brad says, and he doesn’t know why his voice shakes a little. Ray looks like he’s about to say more, but Brad doesn’t give him the chance.
Relationships: Brad Colbert/Ray Person
Comments: 16
Kudos: 79





	make it linger

**Author's Note:**

> i could be sorry that this is the first thing i write for this long-dead fandom. i might be sorry. i haven't decided yet.

Ray was on one. 

Three weeks out, and Brad honestly thought he might have got _off_ one by now. All he’d seemed to do was replace Ripped Fuel with drugstore caffeine pills and Jose Cuervo, and any opportunity to get the shit kicked out of him, apparently. 

The bar’s a hair's breadth away from a dive. There’s what Ray would probably call a _healthy amount of grime_ clinging to every surface like a tacky film, each glass smudged up with the fingerprints of at least six previous drinkers before they get washed. The only member of staff seems to be a surly woman with acne that she should have aged out of a decade ago. Brad’s been in worse establishments stateside. Ray had said it was perfect. Walt had bitched for a good five minutes before Ray had kicked the back of his knees and sent him stumbling through the door at the same time, barking out something about it being _his_ choice for _his_ birthday. ‘ _Twenty-five’s going to be a cunt, I can feel it in my gooch,_ ’ he’d said, whatever that meant.

“Your boy’s getting floored in about thirty seconds,” Nate says, as he leans back next to Brad in the sticky booth. 

Brad says nothing. He sips his beer, eyeing Ray from across the room. Nate’s right. Ray’s squared himself up to the largest fucker in the place, bony chest stuck out and lips drawn back in a knife-slash dare over his teeth, twisted up one-sided. Ray’s challenger appears to be a man at least a head taller than him, twice as wide, with a dry cured ham hock complexion and mine-field pores. He leans back against the bar, arms folded, clearly trying to resist whatever bait Ray’s spat at him. Brad doesn’t know what it was. He wasn’t listening. Walt’s watching warily from two bar stools down, but makes no attempt to move as Ray throws his head back, laughs a manic cackle, and promptly gets a fist in his stomach. 

“What is he _on_?” Nate says. 

Brad raises an eyebrow, taking another sip of his drink as Ray straightens himself up, cracks his neck, and goes for the man’s face. He has to jump to reach, but once he’s up there he manages to get him in a headlock, dragging him down and delivering a few impressive blows to his head and his gut. Brad can just about see the surprise in his eyes before they screw shut. He hides his admiration in his beer. He doesn’t _blame_ the poor fucker. Ray’s combat-thin, barely brushing 5”8, and Brad would probably try his hand at tackling him, if he was bored. If he didn’t know Ray better. What’s more, is even when Ray _loses_ \- which is often- he acts like he plans it all along, swallows his blood, shrugs it off and orders more shots. No satisfaction in fighting someone who doesn’t care.

The other guy doesn’t _know_ this, obviously. Sooner or later he’s got Ray on the ropes, fist in his shirt, pushing him backwards over the bar so far that Brad thinks his spine might snap against the impenitent punches to his face. Several observers _whoop_ , and Ray lights up, snarls, joining in the cheering between eating fists. Brad rolls his eyes. Ray’s got that look on his face that’s the result of mania and too much to drink, and Brad knows from begrudging experience that once he hits this point, Ray will keep going until he’s got no cartilage left unbroken. Brad gets up with a groan and crosses the room in three strides. He wedges himself between them, grabbing Ray by the collar and pulling him from the bar into the street outside, disappointed baying from the small crowd carrying on the stagnant rush of air from the open door. Ray’s hammered and half-crazed, drooling blood. It makes something hot curl up inside Brad’s chest, close to pissed off but missing the mark by a fraction. 

He shoves Ray back against the dirty wall, hand gripping his shoulder hard enough to bruise. 

“Person,” he says, and his voice is steady. Ray looks up at him with wild eyes. “I’d tell you to pick on someone your own size, but I’m unsure how far the nearest pygmy goat farm is.”

“Yeah, sure,” Ray says. Slurs slightly. “But you’re sure I can tell you, right?”

Brad doesn’t smile, but it’s a near thing. 

“I presume they have location pins on whatever donkey-fucking hook-up app you use,” he says. “Any particular reason you’re being especially rabid this evening?”

Ray shrugs, Brad’s hand still on his shoulder. “You worried about me, Big Gay Brad?”

Brad doesn’t say _yes_. “I need my-”

“RTO, yeah, yeah. Funny, how you still need that. Being stateside, and all.”

He swipes blood from his mouth, pulls a face, then leans to one side and spits out one of his molars. Brad watches with mild disgust as it falls to the damp floor- a wet _clack_ and a trail of red. 

“Shit, homes,” Ray says. “Is that my fuckin’ tooth?” 

His jaw cracks as his tongue works around his mouth, apparently feeling for the loss. Brad moves his hold from Ray’s shoulder, possessed by something, grabbing him by the chin instead. His hand is large enough to hook his fingertips under the hinge of Ray’s jaw, and, without thinking, he slides his thumb between Ray’s lips. Brad feels his way to the back of his mouth, pressing lightly into the mauled crater where a tooth should be. Ray tries to jerk his head away, a muffled _ow_ coming out from around Brad’s hand, but Brad just grips tighter. 

“Are you going to keep starting fights,” he says slowly, “until you’ve knocked out every tooth?” 

Ray holds his stare, unflinching, breath coming fast out of his nostrils, tickling the webbed bridge between Brad’s thumb and forefinger. Brad wants him to flinch. He applies more pressure to where he’s digging into the toothless hole. Ray winces, and Brad angles his thumb down, pushes into the soft flesh one more time, before withdrawing his hand slowly. A long strand of crimson spit follows, his thumb red, Ray’s lips shining wetly with blood. 

“The fuck was that about?” Ray says after a moment. Brad feels his stomach drop for a second, but then Ray smiles that same asinine grin he wears when he’s about to get decked. “That was pretty fucking gay, Bradley.”

“I think that constitutes both asking and telling,” Brad says. 

Ray throws his head back and laughs. His skull connects with the brick behind him with a loud _smack_ , and Brad thinks it probably hurt, is about to tell Ray that he doesn’t need any more fucking brain damage, but instead he catches Ray’s eye and the words die in his throat before they hit the stale air. Ray looks like a dog eyeing up roadkill, laughter dying to a small smirk pulling his thin lips up on one side. He holds Brad’s stare for a second, before launching himself forward, standing on his tip-toes, pressing his bloody lips to Brad’s. Brad opens up almost immediately, mindlessly, stooping down, pushing Ray flat against the wall. He licks into his mouth, and Ray tastes disgusting. Iron, battery acid, cigarettes, and tequila. Brad pushes his legs apart with one knee, sliding his thigh up against Ray’s crotch. Brad expects it when he feels Ray’s already half-hard, like a fucking teenager, and he keens into Brad’s mouth, arches his back a little against the friction. 

“Fuck,” he gasps, the sound rattling around Brad’s teeth. “Fuck, shit-”

Brad pulls back, replacing his lips with a flat hand against Ray’s mouth, slamming his head back hard into the brickwork again, and, shit, if he isn’t going to have a headache in the morning. 

“If you don’t shut the fuck up,” Brad hisses in his ear, “I will leave you right here, where you can jack yourself off, or go find some ugly relative of yours to leave unsatisfied. Got it?”

Ray just moans at that. Brad takes that as a cue to get out of public fucking view, wraps his hand around the back of Ray’s neck and drags him to the alley tucked alongside the bar. Ray’s hair has grown just enough past regulation for Brad to knot his fingers in it, and yank his head back. He takes in the fresh, brawl-induced contusions on his exposed throat. Brad presses his fingertips into them, smearing Ray’s own blood across the tanned skin, hearing him hiss. 

“That fuckin’ hurts,” Ray says. His upper body is pinned still between Brad’s hands- one gripping his hair and one at his neck. His legs kick sporadically, though, putting up a weak show of protest, dirty boots dragging mud onto the hems of Brad’s jeans. 

“Don’t be a pussy,” Brad says, pushing his fingers in deeper, feeling Ray shudder underneath him.

He wonders, then, how far he can go. How far Ray will _let_ him go. He adjusts his hand, spanning it wide across the base of his throat, grazing his Adam’s apple, feeling Ray swallow against his palm. Brad squeezes. Ray’s eyes go a little wider, lips parting in a silent _O_ , and Brad thinks he’s about to say something, but nothing comes. Blissful fucking silence. _Finally_ , Brad’s shut him up. He lets up the clutch his other hand has in Ray’s hair, skims it down the rungs of his ribs before coming to rest in between his thighs. Ray’s completely hard now, and he rolls his hips up against Brad’s hand. Experimentally, Brad presses the heel of his other palm harder into Ray’s throat, and his eyes flutter shut with a mangled groan. Brad smirks.

“Should have known you’d get off on this shit,” he says.

Ray doesn’t respond. Ray _can’t_ respond. He just grinds against Brad’s lazy groping, head tilting forwards, leaning into the grip Brad has on his neck. Brad pushes him back with it, pins him against the wall by his throat. He licks his lips, watching the way Ray’s jaw ticks and works through wordless motions, mouth opening and closing, maybe searching for air that’s unavailable. 

Brad can’t say he’s _never_ thought about Ray like this. The fantasies of throttling him mute, and having him writhing against his touch hadn’t overlapped in his imagination, but Brad’s not picky. Two birds. He unzips Ray’s fly and slides a hand into his boxers, wrapping his fingers around his dick and working him harshly. Ray’s eyes fly open, and makes a strangled noise, body going taught like a bowstring.

“Fuck-” he manages to get out. 

Brad changes his angle, takes his hand away from Ray’s throat and, instead, flattens his whole arm against Ray’s neck. He presses down harder, strokes Ray faster, watching carefully as he goes boneless against him. There are safer ways to do this, he knows. But Ray wouldn’t ask for them, so Brad mentally refers to his hands-on training, thinks _non-lethal_ is as good as _safe_ , here. It takes around three minutes to choke someone out. Not like Brad’s been counting. Ray’s slick in his hand now, so Brad thinks he’s probably got thirty more seconds, presses his arm down harder, watches as Ray _tries_ to moan. Just as his eyes begin to slide shut, Brad quickens the pace he has on his dick. Ray’s hands shoot up to Brad’s arm, and he begins to scratch blunt lines into his skin, squirming against him in some kind of desperation.

“What do you want?” Brad says, low and quiet, lips hovering right over the bloody smear of Ray’s mouth, but not quite touching. “You wanna come? You wanna breathe?” 

Ray just shakes, letting out a broken whimper, lips going blue at the edges. Brad knows he should stop. He knows in about ten seconds things could get real ugly. He also knows Ray, and knows that if he pushes him just a little further-

Ray comes over Brad’s fist and the hem of his own shirt with a shudder. Brad holds him there for a few seconds longer, until his hands go slack against Brad’s arm, and then Brad lets him go. Ray’s knees give way immediately, and he drops almost completely to the floor. One hand shoots out to brace himself against the wall as he coughs, retches, heaving in deep gasps of oxygen, wiry limbs vibrating in full-bodied tremors.

“Fuckin’- _Christ_ ,” he croaks. 

Brad falls back against the opposite wall, his own legs liquifying. He’s painfully hard, straining against his jeans, fingers shaking, and his head is filling with white noise. Ray makes a few more ugly hacking noises, eventually catching enough breath to move. He collapses back against the bricks, legs sprawling out in front of him as he glares up at Brad.

“You goin’ for first degree fuckin’ murder?” he says, and he sounds _wrecked_. It makes Brad’s dick _ache_.

Brad shrugs. “You didn’t stop me.”

“Motherfucker,” Ray says. 

Brad looks at him for a minute. Ray wriggles himself back onto his knees, dragging his jeans and boxers back up over his hips. He spits out a strand of congealed blood and saliva.

“That’s really hot, Ray,” Brad deadpans. 

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, asshole,” Ray says, before nodding towards Brad’s crotch. “Yeah, I feel like a picture fuckin’ perfect Angelina Jolie. But you clearly think so.”

Brad palms himself absently. Ray rubs at his neck with a grimace. There’s already smudges of deep purple dipping below the collar of his shirt, creeping up towards his jaw, all bruises from his fight lost under Brad’s damage. The blood from his missing tooth has darkened and dried in flaking smears across his face. Brad shrugs, rolling his shoulders before straightening up.

“Hey, where the fuck you goin’?” Ray says from the floor. 

Brad blinks. “To get another drink.”

Ray’s giant eyes bulge out of his face, and he looks like a damn caricature of himself.

“You do that to a guy and don’t even let him suck your dick?” he shakes his head. “Cruel, homes, cruel. Iceman on tour, Iceman out, right? Listen, it don’t make you a fag if I don’t swallow.”

Brad pauses. He was planning on making a bee-line for the bathroom, jacking himself off before ordering another round, drink the image of Ray’s fucked out face from his mind. He was _planning_ on pretending Ray isn’t something more than a quickie. He swallows that thought down, watches Ray’s open mouth as he makes his way over to Brad, still on his knees, and _fuck_ , if Brad isn’t only human. He cups the back of Ray’s head with one hand when he’s close enough, pulls him in, lets him fumble at the button on Brad’s jeans with fingers that haven’t quite stopped trembling.

“Do not fuckin’ jizz in my mouth, Brad, I don’t want a fuckin’ gum infection.”

“Should have thought of that before you knocked out a tooth,” Brad says, and he doesn’t know why his voice shakes a little. Ray looks like he’s about to say more, but Brad doesn’t give him the chance. 

Brad fucks into Ray’s mouth the moment his dick is free from his pants. He thinks about easing himself in for a moment, but the wet heat of Ray’s tongue whites out his mind like a static television, and he’s hitting the back of Ray’s throat before he knows it. Ray makes a choked noise around him. Brad starts to pull back, but one of Ray’s hands wraps around the meat of his thigh, pulling him in deeper, whilst his other hand shoves Brad’s away from the base of his dick, taking over, working what his mouth can’t fit. His tongue glides up the underside, cheeks hollowing out, taking Brad so far back that he’s entirely unconvinced that Ray’s never done this before.

“Jesus,” Brad groans, driving his hips forwards without really thinking. 

Ray’s bony fingers are digging into his leg, and Brad’s got his hand wrapped around the back of Ray’s skull like a fucking vice. Brad feels a tight pressure start to unfurl in his groin, and he digs his nails into the back of Ray’s neck, thrusting a few more times before he’s coming down Ray’s throat, mind going blank and vision blacking out for a second or two.

When his brain refocuses, Ray’s pushing him away, falling back on his haunches, spitting.

“I told you not to jizz in my mouth, you _fucktard_ ,” he says. Brad rubs a hand over his face, blinks a couple times, tries to concentrate on the present as Ray wipes come and blood from his chin with a scowl. “Now I’m gonna get fuckin’ hep c _._ , and you look like you’ve been railing some girl on her rag. Jesus.” 

Brad’s not really listening. He tucks himself back into his jeans, leaning back against the alley wall, catching his breath.

“Fuckin’ Christ. I feel like someone’s ripped open my trachea and shoved their dick in it, no jelly,” Ray’s saying, standing up and digging around in his pocket for a cigarette. Brad does smile at that. “Don’t smirk. Asshole.” 

Brad can’t help it. He laughs, open and loud. Ray pulls a face like he’s _trying_ to glare, biting his lip between drags on his cigarette, rolling his eyes as his resolve finally cracks. 

“Happy fuckin’ birthday,” Brad says, punching him on the arm, and Ray shakes his head, grinning.

“Yeah, thanks. Best present ever. You're paying for my dental bills," Ray says, but he's not even trying to look irate anymore. "Alright. I need another fuckin’ drink. You coming back in?"

Brad nods, pushing himself off the wall as Ray stubs the cigarette out. He thinks about telling Ray that he’s still got blood on his lips.

For some reason, he decides against it.


End file.
